The Sleeping Prince

by L. Chan

The Prince did not hear the merchant until the other man was nearly upon him. Perhaps it had been the long, thirsty days and the cold nights that had dulled his senses. But the prince had been a mighty hunter once and time had not yet stolen those instincts. The merchant sat at the reigns of a cart, drawn by a greying nag. Dark of skin he was; accustomed to more tropical weather than the fair climes of the Prince’s kingdom.

“Hail, fellow traveller.” The merchant’s voice was a deep bass profundo, so low that it seemed to rattle the Prince’s bones.

“Greetings to you as well.”

The Prince felt the merchant’s eyes taking him in, measuring and calculating, before the thin man spoke next.

“The dust and tears cannot obscure the quality of your clothes. Your back is straight and strong, but your hands are smooth. You do not have the scars to have come across such finery by violence, so you must be of high birth.”

The Prince paused, for the candour and speed of the merchant’s divination had stolen his words from him. He had been stingy with introductions to tradesmen and inn keep alike, for a man of his position would be worth no small ransom and the kingdom, though lawful, was not paradise.

“I am called Siegfried,” the Prince said. “I do have a title, but it means little, so deep in this tiny trail in the woods.”

“Tell me your quest, if it pleases you, friend noble.” The merchant twisted his waist and swept his hand across the wares piled high behind him. “For I am a simple peddler and may have something to aid you.”

The Prince hesitated a second time, reluctant to share the strange obsession that had drawn him to the corner of the Kingdom, a story that had subjected him to ridicule by his father the King, and anxious whispers from the rest of the court. “I have… a dream. I dreamt of a palace, somewhere high, a mountain of some sort. I see it from a distance, and it is as though a great ball is taking place, for there is much merriment and playing of music. I cannot tell where this palace is, for no stars shine from the sky in that strange place, nor is there mountain or stream or wood to serve as a landmark.” The merchant nodded and Siegfried was emboldened by this small gesture. “There is a tale, that deep in these woods, there lies a palace from an age ago. A dark and horrible magick is upon the city, for all its inhabitants lie deep in slumber. At the centre of the enchantment is the Princess of the Palace, a beauty so fair that the sun pales in comparison. At her first birthday, the gods of this earth blessed her with gifts of beauty, wisdom and grace. One of the gods, jealous at not being invited to the celebration cursed her to fall into a deathly sleep on her twentieth birthday, never to wake again.”

The merchant took it all in, making small noises of agreement. He stroked the thin line of a beard that trailed from his lower lip to his chin. “I have heard of this tale and of the last gift that the gods of the earth gave, that the Princess and her Palace would only be woken by her true love. You told me two stories, nobleman, but they do not match.”

“In my heart, I know the palace I see in my dreams is the one that the princess sleeps in and that it is I that must wake her. Therefore, I have scoured my kingdom for many months, even though my own kin think me addled and crazy to be chasing a dream.”

“At the heart of every legend, there is a kernel of truth. No others have succeeded in rousing the Princess for they have missed the truth in the story. The Princess sleeps and she has been dreaming for an age. It is not on this side of sleep that she can be woken, and those who have tried have also fallen under the curse and join her in dream for all eternity.”

“Then I am lost, for there is no way to enter the dreams of another.”

“That is where I have something for you, young Prince. For our spirits wander when we dream and those with some skill at reigning in their base desires can navigate the dreaming world very much like the waking one.” The merchant rummaged through his multitudinous wares and withdrew a small, ornate box. He drew out a key from within his robes and unlocked it. A small phial, coated with dust, was handed to Siegfried.

“Skill in dreaming, I cannot teach in so short a time. Instead, there is a substance that a secretive order in the Far East brews; a tincture of a rare herb helps them maintain their wits when crossing the shores of the dreamlands. Make haste should you find yourself in the dreamlands, for without training your body here would soon shrivel with thirst and hunger.”

The day was hot enough for the ochre dust to stick to the Prince’s sweat slicked skin, but the merchant’s hand was icy cold to the touch when he handed the phial over. The Prince offered to pay, but the other man demurred, saying that he would not accept payment at this time, but would claim it after the Prince had awoken the sleeping kingdom. They parted then, the merchant on his squeaking cart and the Prince to parts unknown.

The Palace loomed out of the forest, so overgrown with trees and undergrowth that the Prince was deep within its grounds long before he realised it was there. The birds ceased their calls and songs about that place, unnerved by the smell of dark magick. The walls of the Palace itself had been strangled by a particularly noxious vine, sprouting thorns a handspan in length and needle sharp.

Siegfried set about hacking the thick, woody vine off one of the servant’s entrances, for the main portcullis was too choked with vines to even see through. Even then, it was hard work. He had brought along a soldier’s sword, a simple, effective blade, devoid of decoration, but the tough wood proved more than a match for the steel and he was sodden with the effort before he cleared his path.

The corridors and byways of the Palace were spotless, no dust had settled, no spiders had spun their gossamer homes in the corners. It was as though time itself had passed the Palace by. Here and there, Siegfried would come across the prostrate form of a sleeping servant girl, or butler, or guard. The shards of china told him that the enchantment had come across them suddenly.

In the great hall, the guests had collapsed into slumber where they stood, or sat. The focus of attention was surely the Princess in the centre of the hall. Her skin was so fair that it seemed to glow from within, her hair the yellow blonde of spun sunlight. The Prince yawned deeply, his sight dimming. Each step closer to the Princess grew heavy. Siegfried downed the merchant’s potion in a single swallow, the crystal phial landing in a burst of glass shards when it slipped from his nerveless fingers.

The last sight in his eyes was the sleeping form of the beauty before him, as the world wobbled and the flagstones rushed up to meet him.

Siegfried found himself back in a dark forest, the transition so seamless that he thought his jaunt through the sleeping Palace a momentarily hallucination brought upon by hunger. Yet the path he found himself on was unfamiliar and the thick trunks of the oak trees more twisted than he remembered. He found his way lit by lumpish, misshapen fungi that sprouted from the trees.

He grew aware of unseen companions following him through the undergrowth, but the phosphorescent fungi only let him catch glimpses of sleek brown fur in the undergrowth. The air seemed to fill with the fluttering of a great many wings, as though filled with clouds of giant moths, yet Siegfried saw nothing. So intent was he on identifying his stalkers that he did not see the protruding root which snagged his foot.

As soon as he was on the ground, his pursuers revealed themselves; giant rodent like creatures, each as large as a hunting dog. When they opened their mouths to call to each other, the Prince saw that each of them had flat tongues, like a human’s but a pair of them to each mouth. It was with that unnatural configuration that the fluttering sounds emerged, which seemed to be the language of these things. Their large eyes held an intelligence more than that of mere beasts, for they quickly pinned him down by the simple measure of sitting on his extremities, all the while chattering with their flapping tongues. Their intentions grew clearer when one of the pack, a little bolder than the rest, sank its sharp teeth into the flesh of Siegfried’s upper arm.

The Prince was certain that his quest would end with ignominy and wondered if he would wake in the Palace or if his dreaming self would never return to his body. His question was not answered for the air was filled with a great chorus of yowlings. The flutterings of the rodents redoubled, taking on an uneasy tone. From the shadows, a great rush of fur emerged, all flashing teeth and claws. Outnumbered, the rodents broke ranks and fled.

Siegfried struggled to his feet, examining the bite of his arm. His rescuers emerged from the trees, a great plethora of cats of varying sizes, moving with military precision and feline grace. After the enemy had been routed, the cats reassembled into ranks and prepared to leave. They ignored Siegfried in the singular way that only cats can, until the Prince caught the eye of the cat at the head of the column.

The cat cocked his head in recognition. “I remember you,” he said.

When he came closer, Siegfried saw that he was missing an eye, as the Prince had expected. “When I was a boy, there was a kitten that was mauled by the castle dogs. I nursed it back to health but it never came back, as cats so often do. He grew most of his fur back, but his eye could not be saved.”

“Indeed it was, dear prince. The castle was not a place for a young cat and I quickly left to the town as soon as I was able. Providence does not allow a blood debt to go unpaid, it seems, because here I am.”

“Perhaps, friend cat, you would be so kind as to help me with one more favour. For I have come to the dreamlands on a quest. There is a plain somewhere high above the ground, in a place where the stars do not shine. I seek a Princess there, in a Palace that has a ball neverending.”

The cat captain licked his paws and smoothed down the hair on his brow, thinking deeply before he answered. “There are places in the dreamlands that even we cats do not go, even we who can tread the paths behind all things. I know the place of which you speak and it is one of the forbidden lands. Come with us, our war party returns to the city of Ulthar, where there are wise men, learned in the geography of the land.”

So the Prince followed the platoon of cats, learning a little of their enmity with the zoogs, who inhabited the forest, after their great friend Randolph Carter had warned them about the treachery of the rodent like creatures. Carter hailed from a place called New England and the cats were tickled when the Prince protested that there was but one England in his world and it was as old as his own Kingdom. His friend remarked cryptically that time in the Dreamlands did not flow as it did in the waking world.

The journey towards Ulthar was a most pleasant one, across emerald fields and the white-wisp chimney smoke of the scattered farmhouses. The city of Ulthar reminded Siegfried of the pleasanter parts of his own Kingdom, with a great many cottages that promised warm hearths and hearty food. The streets were paved and well kept, the cobbles of smooth grey riverstone shot through with striking blue strata.

The cobbled roads funnelled the Prince and the feline platoon towards a modest temple in the heart of the city, where Siegfried bid a warm farewell to the cat captain. There were a great many learned men within the high walls of the temple, some whose profiles Siegfried recognised out of myth, great thinkers and dreamers alike. He was elated to find a familiar face amongst them, Dmitrios, the tutor from his youth, deep in conversation with the elder of the temple.

His erstwhile teacher was less happy to see him, the wizened man’s brow folding as he spoke, “I had not expected to see you here, my Prince. The arts of dreaming were forbidden in your land and I am certain that I did not teach them to you.”

The Prince quickly explained his quest, the chance meeting with the merchant and his rescue from the zoogs. The elder rose up and introduced himself as Atal, a great dreamer and the priest of Ulthar. Age had bleached his hair and hollowed his cheeks but his back was unbowed. His clear eyes were hooded with worry. “The potion of which you speak is not easily come by, the secret of brewing it is only known to few, notably forbidden orders in the Far East, whose names are whispered in fear by civilised folk, for they do not worship the mild gods of Earth, but darker older gods.”

Dmitrios spoke again, “It seems that you are now bound to your quest, Prince. We could show you to the edge of the waking world, but you would fall victim to the castle’s enchantment once you woke and be lost forever. I know of the place you describe, it is far to the North. In both the waking world and the dreamlands it is known as the Plateau of Leng. A dark and cursed place, where neither sun nor moon nor stars shine. Weeks, it would take to reach it.”

The Prince let out a sigh. “Then I am undone, I do not know how long the potion will last.”

Wise Atal placed a hand on the Prince’s shoulder, the grip firm under liver spotted skin. “Courage young Prince. There are quicker ways to reach dark Leng, but they are treacherous. There are secret byways underground that lead up to Leng, but they are impassable unless one has friends amongst the creatures of the Earth. Have you comrades amongst the ghouls?”

Siegfried shook his head.

“They are a brave and noble folk, despite their appearance. Through the air you must go. The port city of Dylath-leen is what you seek. Tradesmen there speak of black galleys that bear fine rubies, blood red and smooth like teardrops, in exchange for slaves and provisions. It has been said that the home of the black galleys must be a place of great industry indeed, to need so much labour. We know here that the black galleys dock in no watery port, but on the moon itself. If the galleys can get to Dylath-leen in a matter of days, then Leng should be no further. We know of none other than Carter who has made the trip back and he has never told us what he saw above.”

“Help me you have, wise ones. For I am already a dead man by my reckoning and now I have hope, for the slightest of chances is better than the doom I face.”

—

There were a great many merchants who followed the meandering banks of the river Skai, which counted Ulthar as one of its stops but Dylath-leen as its ultimate destination before it flowed into the dark seas. Dylath-leen was the very antithesis of Ulthar. Thin towers pierced the horizon, dark basalt against the clear sky, so much unlike the squat homely cottages of his last stop.

The narrow streets were lined with a great many sea taverns, music and laughter leaking from open windows onto the paved alleys. The grizzled sailors looked at the Prince with narrowed eyes and gave him nothing but terse answers about the dreaded black galleys. It was only at the third tavern that Siegfried found a sailor, elbows soaked with spilled rum and grog on the stained table, who told him one such galley had indeed called at the port and had disgorged a stream of dark skinned men, dressed in pantaloons and turbans, who had swarmed the slave markets and more disreputable taverns with their gold and their curious rubies.

The Prince thanked the sailor by paying for his next drink and hurried down towards where the black galley was berthed. Along the way, he picked out several of the curious sailors that had brought the galley to Dylath-leen, their turbans bulbous in a way which made good folk look in other directions. To the sharp of eye, their pantaloons flexed in odd directions when they walked. Once or twice, they caught the Prince staring at them and leered back with mouths which showed too many teeth. Siegfried shivered a little, tightened his knuckles around the pommel of his sword and hurried onward.

The black galley sat low in the water, as though weighed down by some nefarious cargo in its hold. For a day and a night, the Prince watched it, carefully counting the comings and goings of the mysterious sailors. When the majority of them had gone ashore, he seized the opportunity and boarded the galley. The ship exuded a strange odour that Siegfried could not place, it seemed soaked into the very planks of the deck. A musty, damp smell that put the Prince in mind of a swamp, present even over the salty tang of the ocean breeze. He crept around the ship, looking for a place to hide amidst the cargo and provisions where he would be least likely to be discovered. He found a place behind casks of strong rum and other victuals, but not before stealing a glance at the covered rowing decks of the galley, for he had not counted nearly enough sailors to account for the oarsmen such a ship would require. The decks were shrouded in darkness, but the Prince thought he saw a limb of a person or beast, thick and muscular, but bending in such a queer way as to defy any identification. Smooth and hairless, it was, glistening with some form of gelatinous slime. He could approach no closer, for a blast of the same reek that permeated the upper decks issued from the aperture he looked through, and sent him backwards, retching. The mystery was to remain unsolved, as the Prince had to hurry back to his hiding spot. Not a moment too soon, for the sounds from the main deck suggested a flurry of activity.
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Siegfried felt a lurch as the ship cast off and the rhythmic surge of powerful strokes of oars through the waters. The oarsmen of the galley must have been powerful men, for the ship to surge so. But as stroke after tireless stroke brought the ship ever forward, the Prince suspected that no mere human power drove the ship, for it moved faster than anything he had ever seen. A day and a night the Prince hid behind the cargo, not daring to move or reveal himself or even sleep. When the ship must have travelled far from any human port, the strokes doubled in strength and ferocity, and the Prince’s insides did a little dance as the ship jumped in the water. Curiosity got the better of him, as the splashes of the oars had ceased. Peering from his hiding place, he was shocked to see wisps of clouds through a porthole; the galley was no longer plying the seas, but was somehow being propelled through the skies.

Siegfried awoke from his slumber, still curled up in his corner of the ship. It was dark outside the porthole and the ship was silent and still. His limbs protested as he unfolded his body and crept out of his hiding place. Some of the cargo had shifted and it was blind luck that he had not been discovered earlier. The ship had made berth at the docks of a massive city. The towers and minarets of buildings were hewn of some greyish pitted rock that he could not identify. Overhead, instead of sun, moon or stars, he was shocked to see what appeared to be the continents and seas of the dreamlands, laid out in the sky above like a map. So far away was he that even the great port of Dylath-leen could be obscured by the palm of his hand.

The waters of the moon were dark and lapped stickily at the side of the boat. The port seemed empty, bereft of man or beast. Instead of trees, the streets of the moon city were lined with rocks, twisted and gnarled like trees, from which sprouted bulging fungi which pulsed with a sickly glow. Siegfried heard the sounds of great merry making and celebration, against the backdrop of reedy woodwinds.

Siegfried followed the sound until he found himself at the gates of a massive building, its dome shaped ceiling reminiscent of the fungi that infested the city. The sounds of merriment came a little clearer, songs with strange, unsettling rhythms, almost chants. He could not make out the language, but he caught snatches of names that he remembered from his childhood lessons with Dmitrios, names that were forbidden in the Kingdom. Names like Hastur, Shub-Niggurath, ancient Cthulhu and Nyarlathotep, the crawling chaos. There was, in the Kingdom’s many libraries, a small collection of pages reputed to be from the vile Necronomicon, which Dmitrios had shown him when he was of age. A warning, he was told, against the rise of vile cults and secret worshippers of the Other Gods that were not of Earth. He shivered at the recollection.

It was to his favour the guard detail was light and he managed to sneak up to the very borders of the great hall within the building to watch the celebration within. The cavernous hall was the largest space Siegfried had ever seen, the walls covered with long tapestries depicting patterns that seemed to squirm and curve out of space in the flickering light of smokeless sconces and a great hearth.

He had been wrong to assume that the squat, dark skinned sailors were the masters of this city. He saw them in abundance, serving and clearing plates of steaming meats, but sitting at the tables were squat and rotund beasts, of the same mottled white that he saw in the rowing deck upon the black galley. Toadlike they were, as wide as a man was tall, with mouths to match. Instead of eyes, masses of pink tentacles wiggled and waved disturbingly from either side of their nose slits. They stuffed their prodigious mouths with too red meat from the mighty dishes on the table and it was only then that Siegfried noted with jaw dropping realization that the haunches and sides of meat were wholly unlike that of any fowl or low beast, and why the black galleys traded exclusively in slaves.

In their moon stronghold, the dark skinned men had cast off their pantaloons and turbans and the Prince beheld the bony stumps on their foreheads that had pressed against their headgear and the furred, hoofed legs that bent backwards at the knee, much like those of a goat. Under the bass chanting of unholy hymns, Siegfried discerned a piteous mewling from the side of the hall. Under the enormous tapestries, there was a large cage which held a multitude of cats. Even as he watched, one of the moonbeasts waddled up to the cage, grabbed one of the terrified felines with its webbed paws and stuffed the entire hissing, scratching animal into its waiting gullet. The pallid skin of its throat distended awfully as the poor creature made its way down the moonbeast’s throat.

The cats had done the Prince a good turn and he could not have left them to their fate. Arming himself with one of the guttering torches, the Prince crept, unseen, to another corner of the unholy celebration and set several of the massive tapestries alight. When the sounds of panic and commotion had risen to a suitable level, he rushed back to the place where the cats were held, heedless of the uneven flagstones, trying desperately to keep from being overwhelmed by the excitement of the situation.

The throngs of moonbeasts and strange men were nowhere to be seen. The cats had been worked into a frenzy, but kept their military precision, packed at the back of the cage, not flinching even as the fur of those on the edges began to smoke. There was a muffled clang as Siegfried struck the latch with the flat of his blade and the door swung open. The cats filed out, pair by pair through the door and away from the cursed hall of the moonbeasts.

Most of the cats had found their own ways back to Ulthar through secret paths known only to their kind. A complement of five had stayed with the Prince, staying behind to help him navigate in the small skiff he had appropriated from the docks. The oldest of the cats, a milky-eyed tabby named Flynn, was a ship cat in the waking world, but served as a sergeant in the feline army in the dreamlands. One good turn deserved another, he told Siegfried, upon learning of the Prince’s earlier rescue by the cats of Ulthar. The sky currents were treacherous, he explained, and the Prince would need help navigating the light skiff to Leng.

Three days and nights they sailed. The Plateau of Leng was clearly visible from the skiff. As the craft bobbed on the tumultuous currents of wind and aether, the Prince could see day chase night across the dreamlands. Even as the sun swept across emerald fields, the twinkling oceans and the craggy mountains, there was one place which remained resolutely dark, so much so that it seemed that he was steering the skiff towards a hole in the ground, so dark and featureless was the Plateau.

The cats told him dismal stories about his destination, trying to dissuade their newfound friend from his quest. The Plateau was home to nothing good and it was surely a lie that his Princess would be there. Evil traipsed upon the windswept top of the Plateau and sometimes when the cold winds blew down the sheer cliffs, they brought with them the refrains of cursed flutes, piping out hymns to Nyarlathotep and other dark beings.

The Prince would not be swayed. He was about to argue his case again when disaster struck. A screeching blur howled by the skiff, setting it rocking wildly enough for a cask of provisions to bounce off the deck. Hanging on for his life, Siegfried caught a glimpse of their attacker even as the cats desperately trimmed the sail of the skiff to get closer to the ground. No feathers adorned the wings of their attacker, but a vast taut span of leathery skin, mottled and brown. In size, it was at least the equal of their small skiff. It stared at Siegfried with bright eyes set in an elongated skull, much more equine than avian and banked for another pass.

“Shantak!” yelled Flynn, “We are too close to Leng. Find a weapon or a missile. Our vessel will not survive its ferocity!”

Siegfried cut the skiff’s small anchor loose and swung it overhead, scoring a direct hit on the Shantak’s snout. The creature spiralled downwards for a wingbeat or two, but quickly recovered and attacked with greater vehemence. So fierce were its attacks that one of the cats was flung, yowling and spitting, from the skiff before Siegfried could catch it. The Shantak, sensing victory, circled for another strike when there emerged from the ground below a mighty bellow, so loud that it sounded like the trumpets of a cavalry charge. The terrified passengers of the skiff covered their ears, but the effects of the shout on the Shantak were far more dire. The leathery span of its wings began to smoulder and before it could cease its charge towards the skiff, a great tear bifurcated the leather of one of its wings. It fell, trailing a screech, to the ground far below.

The cats guided Siegfried to put the skiff down on the flat plains that surrounded Leng, the damage it had taken was far too great for continued flight. Siegfried had never been so glad to have his feet on the ground as when he vaulted off the skiff.

“Ah, so it was you that tempted the Shantak.”

Siegfried spied the owner of the voice, a man, his beard scraggy and white, but powerfully built, for the thickness of his chest far exceeded the width of Prince’s shoulders. The cats had scattered at the sight of the stranger.

“If it was you that destroyed the Shantak Bird, then I owe you my thanks and my life.”

The old man sniffed.

“Neither is very much important to me. The sport and the hunt is what keeps the blood pumping through these ancient veins. You hunt something as well, or you would not still be in the dreamlands while your mortal form wastes away.”

Siegfried explained his quest to the old man, for he discerned that the old one meant him no harm and was far more than he seemed. When he was done, the old man let out a burst of laughter, so loud that it seemed that the ground itself shook.

“Whelp! Brave but stupid. You think you hunt for love, after only seeing your Princess once. I say something closer to the ground than your brain set you upon your quest. But you have made it this far, and it pleases me to see you struggle. You will find the foot of the Plateau north of here. There is a secret stairway carved into the side of the cliff, known only to those that live on its summit. Make haste, for I would hate to see you die before you could finish your hunt.”

Siegfried was sore and sodden with sweat by the time he had found the secret stairway. The old man had been generous to term it so, some of the steps were so narrow that the Prince had to cling to the cliff face to traverse them. The summit of the Plateau was deceptively high and even after hours of climbing the Prince had not reached it. The sun was bloated and red on the horizon when Siegfried ascended the last few steps and reached the top.

There, strangeness overtook him again. It was sunset on the last few steps of the stairway, but darkest night on the summit. No stars shone in the sky, nor could he see the moon that he sailed from earlier in the week. The floor was not flat but undulating, as though tangled with a great many gigantic roots. In the distance, he made out the winking lights of a palace in the distance and he knew his journey was at its end.

Onwards he pressed, over the uneven ground, bereft of marker or tree to guide him, buffeted by howling winds, until at last he found himself at the Palace. It was only then, by the thin light that escaped from the Palace, that the Prince found that the uneven ground was not dust and earth but seemed to be composed of a tough substance, like the coils of a giant snake. He shuddered as he recalled the many times he had fallen between the stairway and the castle and the smooth, scaly texture of the ground. The Prince found the servant’s entrance he had entered a lifetime ago.

Unlike the castle of the sleeping Princess, this one was full of bustle and life. Servants hurried from the kitchens bearing food and drink. Guards stood smartly to attention, for the Prince’s garb still suggested nobility, although they sniffed at the sweat and dirt staining him when they thought he had passed them.

The grand hall was a place of great beauty. Musicians livened the mood with harp, viola and flute, while masked guests sipped sweet wines and helped themselves to delicate morsels on tables. The Prince felt drawn to the centre of the ballroom by the swirling currents of dance, the undertow of the music, crashing waves of servants bringing out course after course. The crowd parted and he saw her again, this time smiling and laughing, every bit as beautiful as he remembered.

She caught sight of him and stopped mid-sentence, the silence spreading outwards like ripples in a pond. “I don’t believe I know you, guest.”

Only too late did Siegfried remember that he had not planned for this part of his quest. Speech fled from him, a silvery fish that he could not grasp. “I – I was not at your party at the time of your curse, Princess.”

“Does it look like we are cursed, stranger? We are in a beauty surrounds us, we discuss things of learning and great curiosity and it will be so forever.”

The conversation was halted by a crash of silverware and china. The crowd parted to reveal a tray, once piled high with dishes, rattling on the floor, amidst a starburst of shards of porcelain. Of the serving girl that once held it aloft, there was no sign. There was another crash as a viola splintered on the floor, knocking over a music stand. And so it went, with the guest and servant alike vanishing, vanishing till there were none left but the Princess and the few guests closest to her. Only when the crowd had vanished could Siegfried make out that these guests were taller and slimmer than most and that the eyes behind their masks were of ever changing hues, first grey, then blue as the sky, then yellow like the blazing sun.

One of them stepped forward and spoke. “So the dream is over, as you promised.” But he was not addressing the Prince.

A familiar voice responded, a deep rolling tone that Siegfried found all too familiar. “Everything ends. Even the mild dreams of the gods of Earth. Beauty, wisdom, strength. Such great gifts you entrusted to the Princess, that she could join you here in the dreamlands. She and her palace will be back in the waking world soon.”

The merchant emerged from behind a pillar, resplendent in the purple and gold trimmings of a priest or pharaoh. The Princess’ face was paralysed, her beauty twisted at the fear of the tall man. He laughed, a hollow, booming sound. “You have nothing to fear from me, I have only come to deliver on promises. I promised the gods of Earth that they would not have you forever. And to the Prince, I promised that he would wake a kingdom. Come and see!”

He motioned Siegfried over to one of the open windows and when the Prince looked out, he could see the very ground of the Plateau shiver and roil, the undulating ground shaking and parting. The enormous serpentine rolls of the ground stretched out towards the sky, a forest of questing tendrils waving in a loathsome dance. In the distance, Siegfried began to hear the refrain of reedy flutes, same as he remembered from the moon, except this time the flutes were joined by a monstrous drumbeat, so loud and large that it rattled his teeth in his head. In the distance he could see bright, yellowish lights dancing, dancing to the flutes and the hideous drum beat.

He could not make out the source of the lights until one of the tendrils, a mere twenty yards or so from the window, convulsed and opened a single yellow eye along its muscled length. A frightful realisation came upon the Prince, which came close to driving the last rational thought from his mind, that it wasn’t the drums which were keeping time for the flutes in the distance, but a single monstrous heartbeat, the heartbeat of the Plateau itself.

It was the Princess that saved him, pulling him away from the sight and whirling him around to face their tormentor, with the remaining seven guests looking on. The seven, which must have been the mild gods of Earth, stood helpless in the face of such madness.

“Wake now, Prince,” mocked the merchant. “Wake now and you will have completed your quest to save the Princess.”

The Prince strode towards the deceiver, drawing his blade. “All of this was of your design, was it not? You were there at the start of things, poisoning the blessings of the gods of Earth and then aiding me to mock them further.”

“Perhaps, Prince. But I gave you everything you wanted. In the fullness of time, when your story passes into myth, it will be remembered differently than it transpired here. You have woken a sleeping Princess, saved a kingdom and you two will live long lives and rule well. Happily. Ever. After.”

The last mocking words of the merchant were lost to Siegfried, for he blinked once, twice and beheld the Princess also rising from her slumber in the Palace, the thorny vines already drying up and withering.

“Did you come to save me?” she asked, holding his hand up.

“I am not sure,” he said, shaking away memories of talking cats and of ships flying through the air.

And so they did live happily and rule wisely, if not forever, then for as long as people do. Never again did either of them wake up remembering dreams, although the Princess (later the Queen) would often wake on a pillow damp with tears, with the joyous sound of a ball never ending echoing in her ears and the loneliness that only came from the parting of ways with the wondrous gods of Earth.

 

L. Chan hails from Singapore, where he spends his evenings being walked by his dog or dreaming up ways to add to his rejection letter collection. He has work forthcoming in Stupefying Stories and Fictionvale later in 2014. When not wrestling with eldritch horrors in his mind, he maintains a small presence on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Straydog1980.